The White Lotus
by missusXwicked
Summary: Basically, "If there be thorns" with a few twists and turns. Dollanganger forever. Love, Peace, and Chicken grease.
1. A desert life

This is a spin off of If There be Thorns by V.C. Andrews, If I get far enough, I may do another on the next book, Seeds of Yesterday. Yes, there is an 'original character' added to it, and yes, she is an extension of me. I honestly do not understand why some people like to scoff at 'original character' fanfics. They're not really meant to entertain the reader, but rather, the writer. We make up "OCs" because we want to be in the story in some way, and we do this purely for our own enjoyment. The truth is, if I really wanted to write a story without me in it, I'd just make up a new story. Really when you think about it, all the great novels are just extensions of the writers in one way or another. Any who, like dear Bart, I am just pretending. If you like it let me know. If not, fuck you.

With love and plutonium,

Missus Wicked.

* * *

Riding along in the slick black limousine, I could only stare out the window at the Pacific Ocean that bore me to America. Despite all my adoptive _Okaisa _Corrine did to strike up a conversation, I could only nod or give some other vague answer. Soon she fell asleep. Even when she slept, she kept her long veil over her face. I'd only seen her without it once before, when she came to the group home to find a "companion" as she put it. I couldn't blame her for hiding her hideous face, covered with scars and wrinkles. In public I called her "Miss Corrine", in private, _Okaisa_. She was my second best mother.

My real mother, named Iwamura Akemi, had the best job anywhere, in my opinion. She was an assassin. By the time she was twenty, she had become the top assassin in Japan and one of the top female assassins in the world. My father, who was Columbian, was a hitman. Few people understand the difference between hitmen and assassins. A hitman works for a simple mob or a drug lord. They take care of small, insignificant people who owe money, or have disrespected their superiors. An assassin, however, is hired or employed by only top flight mafia, to find and take out important figures. Such as politicians, other mafia bosses, and royalty. To be an assassin, was to be a professional killer. When my parents met and married, they retired to a small flat in Tokyo. Their bosses didn't like that they quit without notice, and spent a lot of time trying to find them, for "dead men tell no tales" type reasons. But my parents were not without their wits, and lived simple lives, though they could have lived lavishly if they so chose. This technique worked well for several years.

Growing up, my parents did not hide a single thing from me about killing people for a living. They taught me that it was natural, because killing was a part of nature. It existed in all other animals, they said.

"And we _are _animals," my mother would add.

They made points to make it very clear to me that killing was not an "appropriate" thing to do just because you wanted to. If you had a sizable fortune to gain, then killing was perfectly acceptable. This is what my foundation was built on. "Kill to gain, not because you can."

My parents were not killing machines; cold, lifeless, and sadistic, No. They were loving, devoted, and intelligent role models. Even though I learned what most people thought and think of killing and murder, I did not blame my parents in the slightest. They did not kill because they liked to kill, but because they were good at it, and were paid handsomely for it.

In our little flat in Tokyo, my parents' home schooled me. They did not teach me math or reading, but focused more on language, and the art of combat. When I was learning how to speak, my mother taught me Japanese. When I was a little older, my father taught me Spanish. And finally when I was eight, both of them taught me English. For one language is the most widely spoken, and that is English. When I was eleven, I spoke all three languages fluently. My mother stayed home with me every day, and for three hours a day she showed me how to defend myself and how to attack others. Swordplay and marksmanship were her specialties. And when all of that was over….I still had to get up and go to school in the mornings!

A few days after my eleventh birthday, my parents and I were settling down in the one bedroom we all shared. No sooner had my father clicked off the light, when there came a horrible, wrenching noise from the front door. My mother barely had time to order me to the closet, before the door seemed to blow off its' hinges. I heard my parents quickly springing into action, but it was all over in a few seconds. The first gunshot rang out loudly, and my mother swore. Called them bastards. Then the second gunshot screamed through the small closet. There were footsteps, a distant door slamming, and a ringing silence.

I did not wail loudly as I drew the covers over my parents' corpses, though fat salty tears slid down my face. I missed my parents already, though they had exposed me to all that guns and swords could do. They even expected to be killed before I reached eighteen, and told me so. No surprises, only grief. I prayed that my parents found their places in paradise, and that someday, I'd do them proud.

After many judges and many hearings, I went to go live with my father's very old mother in San Francisco. Her dark, wrinkled face always had a smile for me, and though she spoke only Spanish, I loved her dearly. I went to American school for a time, and found American teenagers self indulged and stupid, so I studied at home, on a computer. It was our morning ritual to drink our 100 Columbian coffee together, and one morning, a few months after my thirteenth birthday, my grandmother did not get up.

So there I ended up; in a group home, with many silly American girls. No family, no friends, and having little or no money in my purse. I had to sell what little I had of value to buy little things. Without my books, without my _shamisen, _without my parents, I was in hell.

But I only had to suffer for five miserable weeks, when Miss Corrine found me. She came to the group home looking for a young girl of twelve or thirteen years of age, that she could keep. For as she told the people who ran the group home, she was very lonely. She would pay them substantially if there were no questions asked. They of course, working minimum wage jobs, consented. The other girls were frightened by her Muslim appearance and avoided her, but I was merely curious. I permitted her to sit and talk with me. She commented on the beauty of my long, sleek, jet black hair, and I allowed her to brush it while she talked to me.

"Why do you want a girl specifically of this age?" I asked calmly.

Even though I couldn't see her, I could feel her grow heavy with sadness.

"I had a young girl of your age once. She looked just like me, and I was very beautiful at one time. She was sweet, and beautiful, and loved me so much."

"What happened to her?"

She stiffened.

"She….died. When she was fifteen."

"I'm sorry for your loss Mrs. Winslow."

"Thank you. What is your name, my dear?"

"Jasmine. But my mother would call me Rin."

"Rin. What does that mean?"

"Severe, cold, dignified."

I felt her shudder, but she regained her composure quickly.

"Where is your mother now?" she asked, still brushing my hair gently.

"Both of my parents were murdered." I said flatly.

"That's awful! I'm so sorry. Did you love your mother?"

"Very much."

"Do you miss her?"

"Every day."

"You seem so calm about it. But I suspect that is the Japanese in you."

"I guess it must be, Mrs. Winslow."

"You know, I am very wealthy…I could give you anything you wanted, if you should like to leave this place and come live with me."

I turned around to look at her. Her bluest eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled so hopefully at me. She needed someone to replace her dead daughter and keep her company. I needed someone to replace my dead mother and take me away from here. All I can remember are her sweet eyes, brimming with wistful optimism.

"I would like that very much, Mrs. Winslow."

She beamed, and got up from the floor.

"Well I'll see to it that you are taken out of here straight away, tomorrow if I can manage it."

She embraced me briefly, which made me feel awkward, and turned to go.

"And no more of this 'Mrs. Winslow' business, you can call me 'momma' or just Corrine."

"I think I will call you Miss Corrine in public."

"And in private?"

"_Okaisa_. It means 'mother'." I added. She smiled indulgently.

"Thank you, Jasmine. You've given this old lady a reason to smile again."

"You're very welcome…._Okaisa._"

She closed the door gently.

Immediately, I rushed over to the mirror to gaze at my reflection. Same black, rectangular, horn rimmed glasses. Same small lips. Same deep-set, round, brown eyes. Same heart shaped face. Same coffee-with-just-a-little-too-much-milk-added complexion. Really what had I expected to be different? My expression, perhaps.

Having no desire to sleep that night, I lay awake pondering over the great fortune that had befallen me. To think, a girl facing nothing but emptiness, had found a place in the world in just a few short hours. I felt lucky, thrilled, that at last some hope was on the horizon. But I should have learned from the mistakes of my parents. I should have known that getting involved with the wealthy and the powerful always leads to trouble…and misery.


	2. The weed

Part two: Am on a roll

Part two: Am on a roll. Stopping only for cigarettes and mountain dew. That is all.

(Line break)

I was surprised at the speed and control of our young chauffer, as he wound the large limousine around the winding mountain roads. I could see the back of John Amos's shining head up front as he dozed. Miss Corrine hadn't mentioned him. He frightened me. The way he hissed through his false teeth, and looked at my legs in my new private school uniform; all made me want to slice his head off, and watch it roll across the ground. I clutched my new katana tighter as he shifted slightly in his seat.

It seemed to take forever to get to our secluded, yet lavish mansion in the valley. I gently nudged Miss Corrine out of her sleep and let her know that we had arrived. She thanked me and allowed the handsome young driver to assist her out of the car, ignoring John Amos's extended hand. I got out with no assistance and hurried to stand beside Miss Corrine, and put as much distance as I could between the old butler and myself. The maids' car had pulled up, next the moving truck, and they began hauling the last of the furniture into the house.

It's funny—all Miss Corrine could do while they placed all her expensive furniture in the house was stare over the white wall at the roof of the next house over. I could see her bluest eyes were misted over with some strange emotion. Could it have been sadness? Longing? Despair? I didn't ask, because I didn't have too much desire to know at the time. After a while, one maid kept running over and asking questions about the furniture, and Miss Corrine turned away from the wall. She had not directed me to come inside and so I wandered around the expansive grounds. Eventually, I came to the white wall.

As I walked along I heard a strange sound. A voice? Coming from those tree branches?

"Bart, look at the sunset. Have you ever seen more glorious colors? Colors are like music to me. I can hear them singing. I'll bet if God struck me dumb and deaf this very moment, I'd go right on hearing the music of the colors, and seeing them behind my eyes. And in darkness I'd dance and never know it wasn't light."

It sounded like a young man's voice. Someone who had to be around my own age. Then someone with a younger voice mumbled,

"Crazy talk."

The two boys who must have been my neighbors hadn't heard me creep along the wall. Silence was an assassins golden ticket; my mother taught me that long ago. I decided to interrupt.

"Very poetic, sir." I said loudly and clearly.

I heard the sounds of the slight movement that told me one of the boys had gone very still. The other was still relaxed and slack.

"I know you're there. Just what are you doing on my Mistresses wall, uh?"

They said nothing.

"Come now, I don't bite…too hard."

Silence.

"Not even going to welcome me to the neighborhood, uh? That's bad manners, I'll remember this."

I walked away, toward my rich and gargantuan home.

My rooms were in the northeastern wing of the house, facing my childhood home. Miss Corrine had asked me some four days before how I wished my small suite to be decorated. I told her a simple Japanese style would suffice, but if she could manage, to make it like the lovely okiyas the geisha lived in, in _sho-in_ style.

"Whatever your hearts' desire." She replied demurely.

She'd outdone herself. The exterior walls of Japanese houses boast of movable panels that slide in grooves. Wood panels, which are primarily used at night or during rainy weather, feature screens of mounted rice paper. The interiors of these houses are subdivided by screens. She'd commissioned such screens to divide my rooms. I was impressed. She'd hung tasteful pictures of lighthearted, laughing geisha, and a few simple pond or garden scenes, all done in traditional Japanese style. The floor was exactly the same kind of _tatami_ flooring as in the geisha houses. And walking on it, I could tell that it was stuffed with straw and not Styrofoam (as is seen in some modern houses). Oh, she'd spared no expense. I loved her for that, for doing her very best to make me feel at home. It was simple, yet elegant. Modest, yet lavish. It seemed that all the good nature and love in the world could be presented in a room. When I mentioned to her, in our temporary penthouse in San Francisco (!), that what I desired most was a lacquered stand for katanas, I saw a spark in her bluest of eyes. In my small sitting room, she'd given me such a rack….complete with ten, brand new katanas! Each with a unique sheath and so skillfully made! I knew just by looking at them, that they were forged in the oldest, most traditional way. That took months, sometimes years! She must have spent a fortune finding each and every one! My clothes had been unpacked and hung in the closet by a dutiful maid. I slid open the door and gazed in wonder at the four-by-four walk in, with the beautiful garments so carefully suspended. These were all mine? The many pressed professional school uniforms? The countless satin robes, of all colors, and designs? I couldn't imagine sleeping in something as fine as these. The five, priceless silk kimono? These were mine as well? Oh she'd wanted so badly to please me. She'd spent a small fortune on me! One of the robes (a red one, embroidered with a dragon) screamed, "I must be worn this instant!" and so without a moments hesitation, I slipped into a small, black peignoir, and threw the robe over my shoulders. I decided then to look at the bathroom. It was exquisite! In Japan, the tubs are small and deep, making them ideal for compact bathrooms. The wooden Japanese tub had a built-in seat and was outfitted with a six-jet whirlpool, powered by a one-horsepower motor. There was a shower stall and a sink, all outfitted with _sakura_ paneling. I just couldn't wait to pamper myself in that tub! As I slid the door to the bathroom shut, I felt a slight movement coming from the sitting room.

Sensing malevolence, I threw open the door forcefully. John Amos was standing there, fingering the end of one of my swords!

"Get _out_." I commanded loudly.

He looked at me, his eyes full of deep malice. Then his eyes traveled down my body, shrouded by the robe, as though he dearly wished I wasn't covered by it. He made me afraid.

"Get out!" I yelled, my voice squeaking.

He started toward me! I didn't have a knife! What would I--?

"John!" rang out a clearer, more mature voice. "What are you doing in here? Leave this instant!"

He glanced back at me, with an evil gleam in his eyes, and then shuffled out slowly. I had been saved by Miss Corrine.

She glided over to me, looking sorry and relieved _herself_. She sat down stiffly on one of my cushioned pillows by my short tea table. Patting the pillow next to her, she invited me to sit by her.

Having taken my place at her side, she asked the question that was burning in her eyes.

"Do you like it?" she was almost pleading.

I glanced around at the lavishness. The symbols of all that she felt for me. I threw my arms around her, and she laughed joyfully.

"_Okaisa_, I _love_ it!"

When our mother-daughter embrace broke, a troubled frown came to darken her face.

"What was John Amos doing in here?"

"I don't know." I said honestly.

Her frown deepened.

"Make sure you lock your door at night, and be careful what you say. He is a sneak and a snake."

"Why do you keep him, _Okaisa_?"

She sighed, and replied as if dazed,

"That is a very long story. I will tell you one day, when you are old enough to hear it. I'm going to take a short nap."

She rose tautly to leave.

"_Okaisa_?"

"Yes, Jasmine?"

"There were two boys sitting on our wall today. I think they live next door. If they would bother you, I will see that they leave."

She straightened up short.

"Two young boys you say?"

"Yes."

"What did they look like?" she asked sharply.

"I couldn't see them. They were well covered by the foliage."

"Very well." She said, sounding put out. I wondered at great length what interested her so much about these boys, and the house next door.

(Line break)

One sunny afternoon brought a strange sound to my ears, as I sat in the salon reading a paperback novel--the large lions head knocker being pounded against the door. It was only then did I realize that nobody ever came to visit us. Curious, I abandoned my book, and peeked around the door leading to the parlor. Miss Corrine hurried to the door; she appeared to expect our guest. She opened the door only slightly, letting a small ray of sunshine spill onto the tiled floor.

"Bart…?" she whispered, sounding both surprised and happy. I smiled wryly, thinking she'd found herself a man.

"Bart, how wonderful! I was hoping you'd come!"

"Step aside Madame! My men got you surrounded!" said a voice I recognized as the smaller boy from the wall. Why would she invite him over? Was I not enough young company?

"…give up and raise your white flag. The odds are all against you." He was saying.

What nonsense.

"Oh, Bart," she said, giggling like a little girl. "It's so sweet of you to accept my invitation. Sit down and talk to me. Tell me about yourself, your life. Tell me if you're happy; if your brother is happy, if you like where you live, and love your parents. I want to know everything!"

He said nothing, only kicked the door in vehemently. So for the first time I laid eyes on the son of Bartholomew Winslow. At the time, he struck me as a stunted, scruffy, dirty looking little boy. With his shirt untucked, and his hair wild and unruly I could see that he was all fire and brimstone. After I had looked my fill, I turned my attention back to their conversation. Miss Corrine was speaking.

"Do you have a great many big spooky houses next door with rich old ladies inside?"

"Heck no, ma'am." He drawled, now imitating a sheriff. He sauntered over to a wall and leaned against it. He then pretended to roll himself a cigarette. I couldn't help but smile, for it was kind of precious. Miss Corrine seated herself in a hard rocker. She had one in every room except mine. That was another thing to add to the many that I considered over.

"Bart, I often hear you and your brother talking in your yard. I use a stepladder sometimes to look over the wall--I hope you don't mind."

Yes, I'd seen her do that. It only heightened my curiosity of her obsession with the neighbors.

"Please talk Bart," she begged. "Sit down and relax, feel comfortable, feel at home. I want my house to feel like your home, open to you and Jory."

Jory must be the older brother, I thought. Was he as scruffy as Bart here? No, someone as poetic would probably take pains with his appearance.

"…say anything you want to me, anything at all." Miss Corrine was saying.

Bart paused, and seemed to think that offer over.

"People shouldn't spy on me and my older brother." He said crustily.

Thinking this little visit would be the first and last, I went up to my room, to soak in the tub and forget about the troubled young boy, and his poetic brother.


End file.
